Whispers

They don’t see the deeper picture with gracious walks of limps. They don’t see the pain. They don’t know anything. They talk, the whispers at constant flow like waterfalls. The pain in her head magnifies but the need to keep it a secret overpower its harshness. The lies the whispers tell to entertain their ignorance, so amusing a scared heart confined in its jail silently cries. The whispers at a constant flow like angry rivers. Assumptions to paint a picture of ugliness. She’s not what they say. She did not do what they said she did. They don’t know anything. Can anybody hear the quiet screams of help? Dizziness from a spinning head. Falling to darkness because of weak knees. Her ears burn from hatred. The whispers still flow as blood from a slit wrist cut too deep turns cold.